


go around, come around

by wafflepancake



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Established Relationship, Future Fic, M/M, Relationship Study, Sibling Incest, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:28:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25335409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wafflepancake/pseuds/wafflepancake
Summary: Osamu's setting up a second store in Osaka. Atsumu persuades him to move in. Post-timeskip.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Miya Osamu
Comments: 12
Kudos: 166





	go around, come around

**Author's Note:**

> for miyacest week 2020, day 7: future.

“C’mon, you can stay with me,” Atsumu says. “Won’t rentin’ another apartment be expensive? Have you made so much money that you can afford to pass up on free lodging?”

“It’s not practical,” replies Osamu. Atsumu can’t see his face from over the phone, but from the tone of his voice Atsumu can imagine his expression - an almost zen-like stoicism, which only serves to irritate him more. Osamu is so resistant to his provocations these days. Their parents love them both, it’s clear, even throughout their worst displays of mischief-making, but ever since their high school days they’ve come to drop the occasional comment about how Atsumu could learn a thing or two from Osamu about behaving more like an adult.

Business for Onigiri Miya has been booming. It would almost make Atsumu furious, if he weren’t so happy for Osamu. The original store in their native Kobe was hugely popular upon its launch, when Osamu was still in culinary school, and after a year there has been enough interest to contemplate growing the business to nearby Osaka - not least because it’s nearby, but because Atsumu really wants a branch in the city where he’s living right now. And to open a branch in Osaka means that Osamu has to stay in Osaka for some period of time to oversee developments.

“What’s not practical about sharin’ an apartment with me?” Atsumu snaps.

“We lived together for eighteen years, ‘Tsumu. I know what a slob you are. And I’ve grown used to people not stealin’ my shit behind my back, so that’s great.”

I miss you, Atsumu thinks. It’s lonely living here alone. You get to see mom and dad almost everyday and the most often I get to being with my family outside of the off season is once every month if I’m lucky.

But to say that means that he’s going soft, at the ripe old age of twenty-two no less, so instead he tells Osamu, “You fuckin’ asshole, I was the one who suggested you expand your business and helped persuade dad it would be a good idea, and I also got our business manager to agree to a collaboration if you ever opened up shop here, _how dare you_.”

“Let me draw up a cost-benefit analysis and I’ll get back to you,” says Osamu.

The next two weeks are a watershed for the MSBY Black Jackals. Their setter was good before, but for these two weeks in particular Miya Atsumu plays like he’s out to eviscerate whoever’s on the opposite side of the net, whether teammates during practice or opponents during a match - not with a knife, but with a volleyball, if that’s even possible. His tosses are just as sharp and accurate, but he’s so proactive, almost too proactive, and he steals spikes and messes with his middle blockers by faking out one too many times. Thankfully everyone on the team is quick on the uptake, and they’re happy to adapt to the newly punishing pace and take it as a challenge instead of ripping him a new one for fucking with the team’s tempo.

“Are you working off some negative energy?” Sakusa asks sarcastically after Atsumu sends a thunderous no-touch ace his way in a three-on-three.

“You gotta play like this every game,” their coach comments in another post-game debrief, beaming.

*

Osamu acquiesces in the end and moves over during one of Atsumu’s available weekends. He’s stubborn, but Atsumu was born a thousand times more stubborn between the two of them, and a combination of whining and a series of mini-tantrums seems to have worked on him. If nothing else, the prospect of not having to spend some twenty-five thousand yen per month for at least three months appeals to the entrepreneur in him, and Atsumu’s apartment, partially funded by their team allowance, isn’t too shabby either. Sharing a bunk bed like they did in their teens is probably out of the question, but Osamu’s probably good with a sofa bed, which Atsumu purchases from an online store at a massive discount.

“This isn’t as bad as I thought it would be,” he says as soon as he peeks around Atsumu’s front door. “Nice bachelor pad aesthetic.”

“Yeah? You’re always talkin’ about how my so-called shitty personality would get in the way of my livin’ alone. Guess I proved you wrong,” Atsumu brags.

“There’s still room for improvement,” says Osamu.

Atsumu tries to help him to unpack, but there really isn’t much to sort through, and anyway Atsumu is so full of want from not seeing Osamu for months that it’s thrumming through his veins. He kisses Osamu at his bedroom door before Osamu can even get his clothes out of his suitcase and into the empty half of Atsumu’s closet that he cleared out. What surprises him is that Osamu barely resists - he thought Osamu would have told him to back off before he got his belongings in order - but Osamu leans so readily into him, as if he wants Atsumu as much as Atsumu wants him. It’s flattering, and they fit together just as well as Atsumu remembers. They fuck on his bed, curtains drawn, and Osamu makes him come thrice within the hour - personal record - and Atsumu would have sucked Osamu off again in the shower if Osamu hadn’t told him to quit it. Then Osamu unpacks the rest of his stuff and Atsumu sits in the living room, munching on a protein bar, feeling like a champ.

“Mom said to give this to you,” Osamu says, emerging from the room with a package of new bed linens. “Should I just change the sheets while I’m at it? Or do you, as the master of the house, wanna do it?”

“Why is she always buyin’ me new household stuff,” Atsumu groans. Still, the thought of their mother providing the new sheets for their post-coital cleanup makes his stomach churn. They need to never talk about this ever again.

Atsumu brings Osamu out to a nearby restaurant he frequents for dinner where they eat their fill of sushi. He tries to escape and get Osamu to foot the bill, and then they go down to the city for a walk. They both have large builds, so they stand out from the crowd, but no one really recognises him until someone gives him a double-take; he hears her tell her boyfriend, astonished, “That volleyball player… Black Jackals… didn’t know he had a twin,” and something in his stomach twists, for the second time that day, and this time with a strange mix of pride and bitterness. Maybe he had too much ootoro.

“So where’s your stupid new store gonna be,” he asks as they stop halfway down the Dotonbori.

Osamu fishes out his phone and pulls up the Maps app, then pinpoints the location. It’s on the other fucking side of town, far from Atsumu’s apartment, even further away from MSBY’s training grounds.

“What the hell, that’s way too far away for me to visit at my convenience,” he complains.

“It’s situated in a university town, the rent was reasonable, and it’s close enough to the outskirts of the business district,” Osamu explains. “You’ll live. You don’t have to patronise it everyday.”

“I meant for the food, not to help your business out.”

“Jerk,” Osamu chuckles, rolling his eyes. “I know.”

The colourful lights all around them catch in Osamu’s hair, painting it pink on one side, cyan on the other. Atsumu still hasn’t gotten used to it, Osamu reverting to black hair again. It makes him look much younger than Atsumu, even if they’ll forever be the same age, down to the day. Atsumu hasn’t really gotten used to Osamu being so constantly happy either. Most of the memories he has of a younger Osamu feature a perpetually gloomy expression. He doesn’t want to draw any tenuous conclusions, but it’s not a coincidence that Osamu is so fucking happy and grounded doing his own thing one whole prefecture away from Atsumu, and that Atsumu occasionally feels like crap out of nowhere here in Osaka, in the middle of practice, doing the dishes, taking the trash out, whatever. He can’t ever remember feeling like crap for reasons unrelated to volleyball before he was eighteen. Maybe this is the quarter-life crisis people are always talking about.

There are couples everywhere here. Right across the river from them, one such pair is locked into a huddle, laughing as they lean into each other. Atsumu wants to aim a spike their way. His palms tingle at the thought.

“I don’t have trainin’ tomorrow,” he says, looking at Osamu’s face as Osamu gives him his undivided attention. “Let’s go get sloshed. We haven’t done that since New Year’s.”

“You’re payin’,” says Osamu. “And you need to drink responsibly.”

The Glico running man gives them his blessings as they make their way to a bar. They used to come to Osaka all the time as kids with their parents because it was such a nearby getaway, and Atsumu always stood in front of it and posed without reservation. There’s probably a photo lying around somewhere in their home in Kobe. The trips might have stopped after he was twelve or so, because downtown Osaka had just gotten so boring to all of them. When they get back to Atsumu’s apartment they’re both still lucid enough to push the newly unwrapped sofa bed flush against Atsumu’s own bed, and in the morning Atsumu wakes up to find himself with his nose pressed against fabric that smells like plastic, and Osamu is the one who’s sprawled over the expensive sheets their mother bought for him.

*

It is simultaneously the best and worst month of Atsumu’s life after he moves out on his own. He hasn’t had gotten laid this often since they first got together in high school, and also that three-month period in sophomore year where they had the worst fight of their lives and Atsumu privately retaliated by sleeping with anything that had two legs (not that he’s ever going to tell Osamu about that), and the one month after that during the summer holidays where they made up because Atsumu moved home to take a brief hiatus from collegiate volleyball due to underperforming. So much so that he comes to vaguely regret having to reserve significant amounts of energy as a pro athlete with a gruelling training schedule, and then mentally chide himself for the thought, because he loves volleyball more than anything else.

But having another person in his personal space all the time, especially in this one-person apartment, is more claustrophobic than he expected it would be. Muscle memory kicks in every time they even slightly annoy each other, and then it’s as if they’re sixteen all over again, with the barbs and insults and physical aggravations. It’s worse now because they’re supposed to have matured past the childishness, but obviously they haven’t, or at least one of them hasn’t.

“How’s everything?” their mother asks over a video call. Their father hovers in the background. He’s not a believer in newer technologies. “How’s the preparation for the store? We saw the photos you sent us, Osamu, it looks like it’s comin’ together just fine.”

“I’m still lookin’ over minor fixes with our contractor, but everything is going well. Atsumu’s fine, we’re good, the apartment is very comfortable,” Osamu tells her while Atsumu tries not to sulk. They don’t talk about how Osamu took up the entire living room with spreadsheets and floor plans yesterday, so they fought about it and Osamu ended up sleeping on the couch, surrounded by stacks of paper.

“Remember to eat well,” their mother says, blissfully unaware. As if that’s not basically Osamu’s sole purpose for existing.

The other thing that makes it the best/worst month of Atsumu’s life is less salient. About two weeks in, Atsumu realises that it’s the first taste of what it feels like for them to live together, just the two of them. He’s never really thought about what it would be like, because they’ve always accepted that they were going to live apart for as long as Atsumu was travelling cross-country on a regular basis, and Atsumu’s been too preoccupied with his career himself to think about it too much anyway, but now that they’ve actually done it the idea is appealing to him, in a terrifying sort of way. If they can’t have their own space in public, then maybe they can have one in private all to themselves.

He’s not sure if it’s something Osamu wants, though. He’s not even sure if it’s something he wants, either. They’ve never really talked about their relationship or what’s become of it in the past few years; they just are. Everything in the actions, not the words. Even when they used to play volleyball together.

Atsumu supposes he’ll just have to wait and see. He has bigger fish to fry in the meantime, anyway.

Just as Osamu said, his new store is located in a part of town frequented by students and young execs alike. Atsumu drops in one evening after training and makes a show of waltzing up to the as yet undecorated storefront to see how many eyes he can get on him, and make people wonder what the store is going to sell. He definitely turns a few heads. 

“Just print my face on a gigantic poster, hang it outside your shop, and call it a day,” he says as he enters the place. “There were people who might as well have followed me in here.”

Osamu pulls a face like he’s going to come up with a witty retort to that, but then thinks better of it. “I want people to come here because they like the food, ‘Tsumu.”

“I’m just sayin’ a showy marketing campaign doesn’t hurt,” says Atsumu.

He slides into a booth seat still wrapped in plastic. The decor is the same as the store in Kobe - pale lacquered pine and navy canvas. Osamu is inspecting the kitchen all the way in the back. Atsumu sneaks a look at one of the many sample menus lying on the counter, printed on different material, and is pleased to see that the negitoro is still featured as one of the store’s specials, right underneath the shio.

“Lookin’ at your menu is making me hungry,” he thinks aloud. “What should we have for dinner? I heard there’s a really good ramen-ya around here, but I shouldn’t have to tell you that, since you’re the one who scouted out this place.”

“Could you give me maybe half an hour?” Osamu says, checking his watch. “Forty-five minutes, tops. Someone’s gonna come by later to help me check in on progress. And she’s managed to shortlist a few candidates for hire, so that’s great, too.”

“Oh, okay,” says Atsumu, not about to admit that he feels slightly deflated.

“How was trainin’?” Osamu asks.

“It was great,” Atsumu tells him, putting perhaps just a bit more emphasis on ‘great’ than he has to. He’s been working on his serve speed and accuracy lately; at the top flight, just serving like he used to doesn’t cut it anymore, and it’s been difficult to increase serving strength without sacrificing precision, but he’s worked so hard for the past few months and now, finally, finally, his jump serves don’t go out of bounds when he hits a hundred and twenty kilometres. Osamu lets him rattle on about the incredible set piece he engineered today, ticking off boxes on a checklist and saying he’d like to stop by the arena to watch one of these days, and Atsumu’s brain feels like it’s been given a shot of pure adrenaline - until the door at the entrance slides open, and he freezes. It’s not as if they were doing anything out of the ordinary - just talking - but it still feels like they’ve been intruded upon.

It’s the consultant Osamu was talking about earlier. Osamu introduces her to Atsumu and vice versa, they make a bit of small talk, and Atsumu ends up hanging out all by himself, scrolling through his social media feed as they talk business. They wrap it up pretty quickly and make promises to follow up within the week, perhaps conscious of Atsumu’s outsized, vaguely annoyed presence, and she shuffles up to Atsumu as Osamu locks up.

“I’m sorry, but my cousin’s a huge fan…” she begins.

“Would you like an autograph?” he asks.

“Could I?” she asks in return, face lighting up.

Dinner is tonkotsu ramen with gyoza. Osamu mulls the finer points of a hypothetical chashu onigiri, and when they get home Atsumu drags Osamu into the shower with him and kisses him slowly, just the two of them, the hot water pounding the expanse of his back, sore from the repeated motions of the day’s exercise. When they are this close, Atsumu can map out how the planes of their faces bevel and converge in exactly the same ways.

It’s simultaneously the best and worst month because Atsumu’s forgotten what it’s like to be jealous, and now he remembers. Jealousy, as he comes to know, is Oliver asking, eyes sparkling, if the other famous Miya twin he’s always heard about can join them for a game when Atsumu finally brings him to the arena for a visit; is Bokuto slinging an arm over Osamu’s shoulders when he joins the team for post-practice drinks and calling him by a cutesy nickname that sounds overly familiar. Jealousy is Osamu leaning over the freshly renovated counter at his new store every other week, talking to the same business consultant, their heads bent together, laughing at her jokes. Osamu’s always told him that he’s a selfish person, and Atsumu knows it acutely himself, but that doesn’t mean he can’t still feel what he feels.

*

“You know, have you ever thought of what you’re gonna do when you’re forty?” Atsumu asks.

“Hopefully what I’m doin’ now,” Osamu replies, regarding Atsumu with wariness. “Why, what’s gotten into that head of yours?”

“You know me,” Atsumu tells him, meeting his gaze unfailingly. “Always plannin’ ahead.”

Osamu snorts. “The only things I’ve seen you plan ahead for are volleyball tournaments and mealtimes.”

“I’m being serious, ‘Samu.”

Osamu stops drying his hair and pulls his towel off his shoulders. He walks towards the bathroom, and then Atsumu can hear the hairdryer echo off the walls. Osamu’s ignoring him, the fucker. If it had been four or five years ago, Atsumu would definitely have stormed in there and made Osamu pick an argument apart together with him, dissecting it from head to toe. But he’s since realised that although his assertiveness - dare he say bullheadedness - has been of advantage to him in many aspects of his personal and professional life, it’s also the root of many differences that he and Osamu have had over the years, big or small, addressed or unaddressed. He’s learning how to bite his tongue - he bites his tongue.

Finally Osamu reappears from the bathroom. He says, “I’m gonna be doin’ what I’m doin’ now at forty. That answer your question?”

“I guess,” Atsumu scowls. He supposes it’s really too soon to talk about something like this. Besides, there’s a snowball’s chance in hell of them ever getting together when their parents are still here - morbid and perverse as it is to think about - and there’s no guarantee neither one of them isn’t just going to tire of this by the time they’re twenty-five and look for somebody else to be with. Maybe he’ll move to another country halfway across the world to coach a world-class volleyball team when he’s forty. “I’m turnin’ in.”

“G’night,” says Osamu, turning off the lights.

The following week Atsumu heads to Tokyo with the Black Jackals for the away leg of their game with FC Tokyo. That’s four days away, no big deal, and Osamu’s going to use this time to catch up with interviewing helpers for the new store. Atsumu’s happy to have the time away somehow. They absolutely murder their opponents, and Atsumu gets high praise for his performance at the net, and it makes him feel like he’s on cloud nine for the rest of the day. But nothing compares to the look on their faces when he manages to set up a shoot for Bokuto right on the opposite margins of the court, blazing down the outer line, immediately after the ball bounces off the blockers - if he’s going to be honest, he feels like Tokyo’s game never recovered from that point on. The sound of the crowd’s cheering echoes in his ears for the entire night. This is the sort of thing that makes him want to play volleyball forever.

Osamu sends him a photo of gigantic moth sitting on the windowsill one morning. _It’s still here,_ he texts. _You could keep it as a pet._ Bokuto invites them all to his home, and although Atsumu posts the pictures to his own Instagram account, he sends duplicates to Osamu, and then to his mom for good measure just so she knows he’s doing okay. Sakusa, in rare form, wants to visit a museum, so Atsumu tags along just to make sure he regrets his decision. The afternoon they take the shinkansen back, Osamu asks him, _What do you want for dinner tonight? I was thinking curry._

“The moth’s gone,” Osamu says as soon as Atsumu steps in the door. The whole apartment smells amazing.

“Good. I fuckin’ hate bugs,” Atsumu grumbles.

He takes a quick shower, and then sits down to dinner after Osamu makes him at least unzip his luggage and throw his filthy clothes into the laundry. It’s just curry, but Atsumu knows that it’s bound to be amazing if quality ingredients are used, and Osamu, being a chef, never skimps on that kind of thing.

“I decided on the new hires, so they should be ready to come in for some trainin’ next week,” Osamu tells him, catching Atsumu up with what he’s been up to. “Probably have to bring them back to Kobe to familiarise them with our process, so I’m gonna be gone for a few days. You can give me anything you need to give to mom and dad. Oh, and remember Hayashi-san, from the Kobe store? He’s gonna come down here with me after that to help with the fixtures. So you can visit if you wanna say hi to him.”

“Cool,” says Atsumu noncommittally.

“You seem like you had a good time in Tokyo,” Osamu continues, changing the topic. “Outside of the game and everything, even. Y’know, we all thought you were gonna have a hard time, and you gave me so much shit for this, but your world just seems to have gotten bigger and bigger now that you’re goin’ it alone.” He leans back in his chair and pretends to ponder. “Maybe you have me to thank for it.”

How dare you, Atsumu thinks, which is something he thinks a lot of the time lately when it comes to Osamu. Maybe it’s because they’ve been living together, and the proximity is playing tricks on the ways he processes his memories, but these couple of weeks, the image of a teenaged Osamu keeps drifting to the surface of his mind’s eye every second or third toss he makes, waiting to receive. He’s astonished at his own ability to separate these reminders from the reality of his own plays, though, and now that he thinks about it, it’s what drove him to bulldoze all over FC Tokyo the day before last. All of his teammates are so much better than any version of himself or Osamu from years ago, himself included, so there’s no point in reminiscing about a subpar player. He supposes that’s what being a world-class pro athlete is about. Forget anybody else; he knows he has himself to thank for that.

“Sometimes I just can’t help but think about how it’d be like if you were still playin’. Stuff like goin’ to the Olympics together, or whatever, I had it all planned out,” he says anyway. He avoids Osamu’s gaze and chooses instead to stuff his mouth with a slice of pork cutlet. “Fuck, this is good.”

“I really watch all your games if I can help it, you know that right,” says Osamu, barely showing a hint of a smile when Atsumu looks up again. “You’re doin’ great.”

“Screw you and your stupid face,” Atsumu says for lack of a better response, trying to stop his traitorous mouth from twisting into a mirrored grin. Stop fucking smiling, idiot.

“You have the same face,” Osamu replies like he always has, since the beginning.

*

Three months come and go, and before Atsumu knows it Osamu’s booked his train ticket back to Kobe, and the morning of his departure Atsumu is woken unceremoniously by the lights in the bedroom going on and the unholy sounds of Osamu’s luggage clacking all over the goddamn place. He drags himself out of bed and blearily sees Osamu off at the door.

“What, no goodbye kiss?” he demands when Osamu bends down to do his shoelaces.

“Security camera,” Osamu subtly nods his head towards the glass dome in the corridor’s ceiling as he straightens up. “You mean you’ve lived here for a year and you’ve never noticed?”

“Oh fuck you, I’m not awake yet,” gripes Atsumu. “Forget it, just forget it. I have a heavy schedule today and you woke me up before I should have gotten up. Hurry up and leave. I need to go back to bed.”

“You still remember what you said about your business manager doing a collaboration, right?” Osamu asks, elegantly sidestepping his tantrum. He’s so good at this nowadays, it’s sort of killing Atsumu inside.

“Email her about it, I don’t know the details.”

“What do you know,” Osamu rolls his eyes.

“Nothing, except how to be the best damn setter in the entire country, I guess.”

“Showoff,” Osamu murmurs.

He reaches out, and for a split second Atsumu thinks that he’s forgotten his own advice about there always being eyes around them, but then his hand just moves to the top of Atsumu’s head and he tousles Atsumu’s artfully arranged bed hair and then claps him lightly on the cheek, twice, and if Atsumu hasn’t already gotten morning wood then he certainly has it now, for no good fucking reason. Except that Osamu is heading for the train station right now and leaving Atsumu hanging, and that’s fine, because when hasn’t that been the case between the both of them?

“Be back in a couple of weeks, after I talk to your manager,” he says. “I have some wonderful ideas I want to pitch to her. Like gettin’ you to be a waiter for a day. You’ll hate it.”

“I’ll serve your customers so fuckin’ hard they’ll be beggin’ me to take over the franchise by the end of the day,” Atsumu says. He hates the fact that his voice cracks towards the end of his sentence.

Contrary to what he told Osamu, he doesn’t go back to bed. He washes his face and brushes his teeth and takes a cold shower to get rid of his stupid hard-on, and decides he might as well head to the arena since he’s already up. But before that, there’s the loaf of bread that Osamu’s left on the counter, ready for toasting, a half-used jar of tsubu-an sitting next to it. No coffee today for Atsumu, but the carton of milk in the fridge will do.

What is he going to miss? Nothing much. Sometimes Atsumu thinks they were so close for eighteen years, too close, that they now have to make up for it with the next eighteen years. Maybe the sex, but he thinks he can talk Osamu into coming over every now and then to oversee the Osaka store, which is basically Osamu’s own responsibility as the owner of his own stupidly successful franchise. Oh yeah, and the piping hot dinners that are ready for him almost every night he comes home from practice. He’ll miss those. But he’ll get over it.

He lounges on the sofa, watches the morning news - which he never watches - and texts his mother, telling her to expect Osamu in a couple of hours. He suspects Osamu might have already told her the same, but whatever, she likes to hear from them. He eats, filling his empty stomach, and then washes up, the sound of running water echoing through the kitchen, and then, finally, thinking of the work he has to do for the day ahead, locks up and heads out.


End file.
